


A Little Bit of Flare

by princessofmind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, IKEA, M/M, ugly couches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing says budding romance like a floral couch and quality time at IKEA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Bit of Flare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [olekkkk](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=olekkkk).



> Well, here it is, my first foray in to Teen Wolf fanfiction, done for the Teen Wolf Holiday Exchange. Special thanks to my beta [Tasha](http://confuzzeldmind.tumblr.com/) and her dedication to finding me the most horrendous but tolerable couch on the IKEA website. If you want to see the couch, you can find it [here](http://www.ikea.com/us/en/catalog/products/S69902709/), but wait until the end for full effect.

The couch in front of him is hideous.

Sometimes, there are couches that are so hideous they're endearing, like the floral couch in your grandmother's house that has afghans draped over the back and there's always a cat or two sleeping on the well-worn cushions, or the dark plaid monstrosity in the rec room at the gym that always smells like Fabreeze and cigarettes.

This couch is none of those things.

Stiles has his thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his uniform pants, a huge smile splitting his face as if the vein throbbing in your forehead brings him more pleasure than a Christmas bonus. Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as if that would clear the sight before him, but when he opens them, Stiles is leaning against the damn thing, looking just seconds away from stroking the colorless fabric.

"Stiles."

"I know, you're speechless," the young man says, waving a hand in front of him as if to clear the words from the air. "It matches the color scheme you picked so flawlessly, hell, even I was surprised. Something like this should be _custom ordered_. But here it is. Just for you."

"The flowers look dead."

The young man gives the couch a critical look, eyes squinted in a comically over-done analysis of the fabric. "No, they look…" he gestures in a windmill motion with one his hands, the other planted firmly on the arm of the couch.

"Withered?" Derek suggests. Stiles shakes his head, and his hand flaps almost to mirror the gesture. "Rotten?"

"Stop, you'll hurt her feelings."

" _Her_?"

Stiles pops a closed fist in to his open palm. "Antiquated. Aged. Preserved."

"Dead."

Stiles rolls his eyes, gaze lingering on the artificial lights as if begging the IKEA gods for patience with this insufferable mortal before turning his attention back to Derek. "You've never had a problem with anything I've picked out for you before."

And it's true. Derek's been making trips back and forth to the IKEA almost once a week in a futile attempt to outfit the office slash studio apartment he now does all his work from. Generally, the appearance of his apartment didn't even register in the top fifty things he gave a shit about so long as it was clean, but being a graphic designer working from home requires a bit more show than if he had an office elsewhere.

Stiles had latched on to him almost as soon as he walked through the door, and although the going has been slow (Derek really can't sit and look at fabric swatches or compare bar stools for hours on end), the plucky undergrad knows what he's doing, and has hand-picked almost all of the furniture steadily being assembled in his home. If it weren't for the paranoia that something like this would happen, Derek would have just given him the Visa number and let him figure out the whole damn thing on his own.

"I'm not putting a couch with flowers on it in my living room," Derek says, scratching at the stubble on his jaw as he gives Stiles his best no-nonsense look.

Of course, it doesn't faze the kid, and only ends up with him ass-first in the admittedly comfortable floral-print disaster. Stiles flops down next to him, stretching an arm behind Derek's head with an exaggerated sigh of happiness. "See, here's the thing. Your house has a lot of sharp, hard edges; very industrial. It works well with your _sunny_ personality, but it needs to be softened up a little."

"With a couch with dead flowers on it," Derek says, bumping Stiles's leg with his knee and arching an eyebrow.

"With a couch with dead flowers on it," the younger man intones seriously.

Running a hand through his hair, Derek looks at the dull grey pattern standing out against the edge of his jeans. He has a point about the almost spartan look of his studio, especially with all the blank walls that he has yet to even think about putting artwork up on. It's too angular, violent almost, and a couch with rounded edges and a soft pattern would break the monotony.

"I'll help with the installation myself," Stiles says, putting a hand on his heart. "I promise, if it doesn't absolutely knock your socks off, I'll whisk it straight out of there and pay for the transport myself."

Which is how Derek stumbles out of bed the following Saturday to find Stiles in his obnoxiously yellow shirt and two cups of coffee, and a pair of well-muscled men to bring _the couch_ in to his studio. Bleary eyed, he makes to sit at his desk and watch the birthing of his couch, but Stiles shoves him in to his bedroom to wait. "You have to wait to get the full effect of it's beauty," he says serenely before slamming the door in his face.

It never takes long for them to set things up (IKEA has installations down to an art), and before he can even get through the paper on his tablet, Stiles is back, a little sweaty but a decidedly pleased smile curling his full lips. "She's ready for you, sir," he says, bowing at the waist with a little flourish.

It

looks

 _good_.

Catty-corner to his all-glass desk and modern swivel chair, the grey color of the flowers looks deceptively warm against the exposed brick of the far wall. The curves draw his eyes away from the harsh lines of the stones and the counter-top nearby, and the flowers add some much needed personality to all the blacks and whites and plain surfaces that made the small studio feel much too big for him.

More than that, the couch looks like a little piece of Stiles sitting cheerfully amongst the sharp corners, and it's such an allegory that Derek chokes back a laugh. All the furniture up to this point represented his personality flawlessly, but there's only one person in his life a turquoise throw and a floral couch could represent.

"You were right," Derek concedes as Stiles flops down on the couch next to him, radiating warmth and smelling like hazelnuts and cardboard. "It doesn't feel as boring now."

"Yeah?" Stiles has a glimmer in his eye as he leans over. "Did I successfully spice up your life, Mr. Hale?"

Derek really wants to roll his eyes, but eye rolling only eggs him on, so instead he silences Stiles with his lips, the tension easing out of his muscles at the press of another body against his. The younger man settles against his chest, fingertips brushing at the neck of his shirt, and the content, almost peaceful expression on his face makes it seem like he and the couch are there to stay.

"I'll keep it," Derek grumbles, and Stiles just laughs and smothers them both in the throw.


End file.
